Pink
by Oktarin
Summary: She's perfect but still flawed. Very flawed. She's your twisted Eve, you suppose that makes you her Adam, warped and imperfect and completely unfit for the job, but maybe together you're okay.


Work Text:

****My first time writing for either of these characters so any suggestions would be great. Dirk is seriously a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, wrapped inside an enigma. So I obviously made the best choice by writing this in his pov. Such brilliance.

**Pink :**

She's all soft curves and pretty pink skin, littered with freckles that have been left along her cheeks and her shoulders, like lace on a dress, a detail that she wouldn't be the same without. She smells like flowers and sugar underneath the stink of liquor that constantly hangs around her, thick and heavy, something that you wish would change, but, again, she wouldn't be the same without. Her lips are always midnight black, leaving perfect little smudges of ebony on her glasses and on your skin. Her eyes sparkle with delight, like the twinkling stars above, tinted vibrant, Hello Kitty, Pinky Pie, pink. Everything about her is pink, pink, pink. She's the embodiment of it, everything about her screams ___pink_.

Maybe it is simply because the color has become tied to her image in your mind; pink means tipsy, bubbly, and silly, green means loud, brave, and rugged, and blue means reserved, questioning, but, nonetheless, loyal. Pink means Roxy. Through the Internet and in person, she's still her and every little action fits from her appearance to her voice.

She grins up at you, realizing you've been studying her, black lips stretching across pearly whites and a giggle slips out. You have trouble keeping up with all of her different laughs. There's this, her sweet little giggles that still are heavy with mischief, her loud, rambunctious, laughs that leave her rolling on the floor, gasping for breath, and her soft, silvery, laughs that come with side glances and pink cheeks. You can't decide which you like the best.

Your shirt that fits so tightly on you is loose on her. It hangs low enough that you can see a little too much cleavage, something you try to avoid looking at. You'd like to think you're a gentleman; perhaps you're not as good at it as Jake, though. But the more you avoid it the more obvious it feels. You're glad you have your shades.

She's so different from you. Her hands soft and dainty while yours are large and your palms rough from all of your work. Her face is pretty, her lips full and her cheeks round, your face, not so much. You're all sharp angles and hard lines. Her nose is cute and upturned and yours is all blunt and gnarled from being broken. She's short and curvy and beautiful, you're tall and muscular and stiff. She's perfect; you're flawed.

Her hand flutters up to your face, long nails gently scraping your skin as her fingers creep up your cheek. She's going for your glasses again. "Roxy."

She whines, pink eyes rolling. Her blond hair is ruffled and her skin extra pink from sitting out in the sun with you all day, she couldn't look more perfect. It's hot out, your shirt is gone and her pants were kicked off long ago, leaving her in a pair of pink underwear, of course. "Why?" She huffs finally.

"It's too bright," you tell her but the sun is going down quickly, painting the clouds a brilliant orange, just like her pumpkins, and making the water shine; it wont serve as an excuse much longer. She knows you're just saying that too, it doesn't bother you, not really.

She makes sure to pout extra hard as she lets her hand fall away. "Fiiiine…" She groans, still keeping the lilt in her voice. You don't know how but you still think it's cute. Her hand finds your arm and then your own. You leave it loose and heavy, a dead weight, as she brings your palm to her mouth. A brush of ebony is left upon your hand, striking against the ivory of your skin.

Your free hand, as if on its own accord, brushes back her bangs that shine like corn silk in the fading light. Her eyes flutter open, sparkling once more; you can feel her smile against your skin.

You expect her to release you but instead she places your hand on her stomach, folding her own on top to keep you in place, fingers somehow managing to weave with your own. "Y'know…" She drawls and it's enough to make your lips pull into a smile. "At home… the sunsets always make me think of you." She says it calmly, a bit offhandedly, but the way her cheeks, already pink from being sunburned, darken tells you it must mean something more.

You glance up at the sky. You can understand; it ___is_ tangerine orange. You've never really thought about it but what could that color mean to her? To Jake? To Jane? You would hope it makes them think of good things. Of a friend, maybe a little strange, maybe a little cold, but still a friend, still a human being. Maybe of intelligence and technology, you don't know. But you're connected to the sunset, something that Roxy must witness close to every day. It kind of makes you embarrassed. It also makes you feel sort of special.

To Jane and Jake you are simply words on a screen, someone they can trust, but part of that is tied to the anonymity of it all you suppose. It goes both ways to some extent. They are people that will be key to your survival, that much you know for sure, and they are two of the three people you have ever spoken to. Ever. So they do mean more to you than you probably mean to them, at least in Jane's case. You understand.

But to Roxy you must mean more. At least to you she means more than them. She's someone you love, the only other person left here in this empty world of horrors, she's the first human being you've ever had actual contact with. God only knows how screwed up you would be if you hadn't had anyone at all. Well, you guess you're already a piece of work, at least in the eyes of those thousands of years before you. You can understand that too.

You remember the first time you had seen her, so tiny and wide eyed with wonder. You both were so young then, how many years ago was it? Six? Seven? Every touch had been shocking and curious, her squeezing the muscles in your arms, just beginning to show, much to your delight, and you poking at her cheeks, still chubby with baby fat. Finally she had burst into a fit of giggles, prompting you to try and laugh too, a husky, uncomfortable, noise that had been so alien to you at the time. It still is.

She's more than just bubblegum pink and a wall of typos, she's your best friend, your closest friend, the person you trust with everything, the only person who has been here for you in this empty world.

"Dirk? What'cha thinking about?" She asks with all of the innocence that she had the first time you met her, asking, in a hushed voice, if boys "really have different naughty bits".

You shrug. You trust her with everything, of course you do. But sometimes you're reluctant to share. You don't like appearing weak, you both, at all times, must remain strong. For yourself, of course, but for the other as well.

She clucks at you, snatching your glasses from your face before you can object. Lazy days with her tend to dull your senses; they never come more than once or twice a year so it's okay, like a holiday. "There're them pretty eyes!" She sings, grinning up at you. You roll your "pretty" eyes in response but don't try and steal your shades back. She giggles in delight, slipping them onto her own face. "Haaay girl…" She drawls to AR and you roll your eyes, leaning back, using your arms to hold yourself up.

"I see how it is. I see whose your favorite." You sigh and she bats at your chest with a snort.

"You both are my babies," she huffs, sliding the shades back into her hair. "He needs a little love too."

You don't bother with the usual "Roxy, its artificial intelligence" because you don't really feel like getting into that whole thing with her.

"I don' know 'bout you…" She giggles, pushing herself up. "But mama needs a drink."

You laugh at her, husky and dry like it has always been but a bit more comfortable by now. "Mama needs to sit back down." You reply, watching her as she walks back over to the door, swinging her hips and placing AR back on her nose.

"He don't understand like you do," she tells him, loud enough for you to hear. "Mama needs her tequila. Or some vodka, I ain't picky."

This girl is going to be the end of you.

You shake your head, running a hand through your hair that refuses to cooperate today before standing to follow. She's already danced away, the fog of alcohol no longer enough to make her steps uncertain and stumbling. Maybe it is time for a drink.

You've convinced her to keep herself in a comfortable buzz, not getting herself completely wasted; you think it works out for both of you.

Frigglish mewls pitifully from his perch on the back of your couch as you pass. He doesn't like leaving home, he doesn't like you much either, but Roxy forces him to come along anyway, without fail. As you pass his ears pin back against his head and he growls unhappily. The feeling is mutual.

You enter the kitchen to find Roxy sipping from her glass, leaning back against the counter with her hair pushed back by AR and the glass cupped delicately in her perfect hands. In the golden light that can still manage to creep through your window, with her face, for once, neutral and her pink eyes nearly closed, almost like a content cat, she suddenly looks much older. She looks like a woman who has held up the weight of the world, been the last of a dying race, the twisted opposite of Eve. She's no longer the little girl giggling over "naughty bits" and drinking until she's sick. She's stronger now, still tiny and silly and loveable, but now her face is free of most of it's baby fat, talk of naughty bits don't leave her gasping for breath, not all of the time, and she's learning not to depend on the alcohol, not as much. You didn't think it was possible but she may look even more perfect.

When she notices you she smiles, a slow, lazy, smile that creeps across her face. Eyes sparkling and dimples showing, if only barely, on perfect pink cheeks.

"C'mere Dirky…" She mumbles, reaching out to you and smiling even brighter.

You roll your eyes extra hard now that you know that she can see it. The few steps that separate you only take a moment to cross. You allow her to wind her arms around your neck, cool glass bumping against the heat of your skin, and in turn you slip your arms around her waist, small and gently curving. She's much tinier than you, your chin barely brushing her hair; you have to lean down to press a kiss, chaste and soft, to her forehead. She giggles in response, fingers, tipped with long pink nails, gently brushing along the back of your neck.

"You're a sweetie," she hums, tucking her head under your chin and pressing into your chest. It's impossible to not notice how her body fits perfectly against your own. Her arms fall from your neck and she fumbles to place the drink on the counter behind her. You take it from her and she giggles, arms slithering around your waist and face pressing even more insistently into your chest. You take the chance to slip AR from her head and onto your own.

You ignore his complaints and snarky remarks; you'll answer them later.

"I don't wanna' to go home…" She sighs, the words muffled and hard to catch because of your chest. She sounds like a small child, whiny and heartbroken.

"I don't want you to go home." You reply calmly. Your breath stirs her hair, golden strands still sparkling in the dying light.

Now is usually the time you gently push her away, force her fingers to uncurl from your shirt, and put up your mask, telling her she needs to go. She should leave. She needs to go home and take care of the things that are expected of her from no one other than herself and those who depend on her, too, you suppose. You think you deserve to be a little selfish with her time for once though.

So you don't release her, you hold her close and keep her there. She doesn't object, just hums some more, arm slipping out to snatch up her drink and gulps it down before snuggling right back against you.

The sun goes down and the room grows dark but you do not move. Your breaths are now synced, as if you are one, bodies pressed together and movements slow. You rub circles against her back and she presses kisses against your skin, ebony blending in with the night. She's warm and safe, a promise of love and openness, someone who you may trust. You mean protection and guidance; a hand to push her along in what is, hopefully, the right path when she is lead astray by depression and addiction.

Her kisses begin to tickle, bringing heat to your cheeks and making AR ping softly above, no doubt trying to tease you. You huff, batting at the hand that tries to feel up your abs. She only giggles pulling away. Your moment is over. "Boy, you are fine…" She giggles, twirling to get another drink. "You want one?" She asks although you both know the answer. Instead of going for her glass she just snatches up an entire bottle. You shake your head.

She struts back up to you, pressing a kiss to your lips. Her breath is warm and inviting despite it's stench of alcohol. It's chaste, soft, platonic, nothing heated or sexual in any sense of the words. But you still find yourself following as she pulls away, pressing a firmer kiss to her lips, unpracticed and stiff. When you pull away she blinks up at you, pink eyes shining like silver in the dim light provided by the moon. You flush again, regretting your action, suddenly very aware of the absence of the pinging that has been a constant, like Roxy's heart beat, for the past hour and the way her cheeks are not flushing pink like they should be.

You want to slip AR back onto your nose but that's not about to happen, it would be the equivalent of tattooing "Weak" on your forehead.

Days like these dull your senses a little too much. Every move you make has been thought through, it's organized and precise, you don't make sloppy mistakes like this. You don't act on impulse; impulse is messy, unsophisticated, and dangerous. You have made a mistake.

"I'm sorry," you start, watching her fumble to place the bottle back on the counter after one last swig, but then you are mowed over and your face is being painted black. You take in a sharp breath, stumbling back a step before regaining your balance, arms automatically curling around her waist to support her.

She wraps her legs around your waist in turn and her arms around your neck, still attacking you with kisses. AR goes wild, of course, but he's easily ignored when Roxy's lips finally find your own. She's a bundle of energy, eager and sloppy. You try to be slower and more meticulous, like you usually are, but today your usual tactics don't seem to be working out so well. Her arms slip from around your neck, instead clasping your face between her hands. She's forceful and it's so very obvious that she doesn't know what she's doing that you have to pull away to laugh.

She pouts at you but soon she's laughing too, loud and bright, echoing throughout the quiet of your house. She fills up this empty hell with her warmth, she makes it bearable. She slips from your grasp, feet meeting the floor with a soft thud. Her arms twine around your neck, yours around her waist, but instead of the usual, instead of her head being tucked under your chin, she stands on her tip toes, straining to reach you, and you duck your head so your lips may meet.

It's soft, caring, and orderly. It holds enough of her fire and enough of your restraint to be perfect, as if you are one.

Your hand cups the back of her head and tangles into the gold of her hair. She pulls back, giggling softly against your lips before dragging you together once more.

You kiss her well into the night, until Frigglish is whining and curling between your feet. You swear when he steps on your foot his claws purposefully dig in. Roxy pulls away with another breathy giggle, stooping down to scoop up her precious cat. She smiles brightly at you when she's standing straight once more but then she's yawning, prompting you to guide her back to your room.

You've shared the same bed before, when the weight of a dying race grows to be too much, when all of the stress becomes too great, when the nightmares are too dark, and when another person's warmth is all you really need. But you've never kissed before, not like you have tonight. You don't want this to suddenly be awkward or, god forbid, impossible now.

It's not.

Roxy pushes you onto the bed with a giggle, light and airy but still thick with mischief. Frigglish is set back on the ground and she climbs in bed with you, another kiss being pressed to your mouth before she's curling up against you, almost like a cat. You press a kiss to her forehead, an action of routine, before curling up with her too.

"I love you Dirk…" She murmurs after a moment. Her voice is heavy with sleep but not slurred by liquor, it's not uncertain, it never is, but there's more meaning to it than usual. You know it's something more.

"I love you too, Rox." You breathe, holding her close.

She's perfect but still flawed. Very flawed. She's your twisted Eve, you suppose that makes you her Adam, warped and imperfect and completely unfit for the job, but maybe together you're okay. Together you can actually get things done or you can do nothing at all, it tends to lean towards the latter, but you can still accomplish more when you're together.

She's pink. She means safety and love and beauty. She's your other half, the missing piece of the puzzle. She pushes you to be rash and you push her to be cautious. If the other wasn't here for you god only knows where you would be.

But you don't like to think about those things. Instead you hesitantly place a kiss on her cheek, perfect and pink, before you press face into her hair and give her waist a squeeze. As long as you're together it's easy to pretend it will all be okay.


End file.
